


Distance

by writingandchocolatemilk



Series: SpUk Oneshots [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain might have gotten blackout drunk at the Christmas party.</p><p>Well, no, he definitely got blackout drunk. But he wasn't sure exactly what he did. That's what happened when he got blackout drunk, he supposed. Either way, there was a very large gap in his memory.</p><p>Gaps are all fine and good, but England was acting… like he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Credit to the very ending goes to my doll** [girlofthearts](girlofthearts.tumblr.com) **on Tumblr!**
> 
>  **Anonymous said:** "I live below you and I was minding my bussiness watching the snowfall out the window and I saw..." with EngSpa please? (and you are amazing omg i like your prumano too)
> 
>  
> 
> **I already wrote this plot for another pairing, so I did another one. :V**

Spain might have gotten blackout drunk at the Christmas party.

Well, no, he definitely got blackout drunk. But he wasn't sure exactly what he did. That's what happened when he got blackout drunk, he supposed. Either way, there was a very large gap in his memory.

Gaps are all fine and good, but England was acting… like he did.

"Don't talk to me," he said, eyes hard.

He moved his seat next to America. England  _hated_  America, so Spain must have really fucked up.

But he had to try.

"England—"

"Are you really talking to me?" England shuffled his papers, shoulders stiff. "Because you really have some fucking nerve, if that's what you're doing. If you're talking to me."

"Okay. Okay, I'm not talking to you. But, say, if I, uh,  _was_  talking to you. If I was trying to find out what… happened…?" Spain stood an awkward distance behind England's chair.

"Are you referring to the Christmas party?"

"Am I?"

England stood and turned on his heel. The meeting room felt very empty. England must have been hiding in here for lunch, and Spain felt like he was intruding. He tried a smile, something nice and goofy and pleading.

England's jaw clenched. "Maybe you should try a little harder and remember." He went to push by Spain.

Spain's hand seemed to move on its own, and he grabbed England's arm as he passed. He stopped England, but the island ripped himself away from his grip. But at least now he was facing Spain.

"Do not," England seethed, " _touch_  me."

Spain held up his hands. "I didn't mean anything by it," he tried in Spanish.

"Fuck off."

"Look, whatever I did to you, I didn't mean it, yeah?" Spain edged closer. "I did not mean it. I was drunk."

England tossed his folder at Spain. He tried to grab it, but ended up catching on edge. Papers scattered across the floor, and England backed away. Spain threw the folder down and put his hands on his hips.

"Don't be like this."

England crossed his arms. "Like what?"

Spain gestured. "Just tell me."

"Tell you what?"

Spain let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm sorry, okay? I do not know what I  _did_ , but I'm sorry. Is that what you want?" Spain got on his knees. "I am sorry, your highness."

England's cheeks burned, and he whipped around to make sure no one had returned to the room.

"Stop that," England hissed. "Get up."

"This isn't what you want?"

England stepped forward. He reached down, maybe to try and drag Spain to his feet, but Spain caught his wrists. England froze, glared at Spain through his bangs.

He just wanted England to stay close. To stop this. His grip tightened, and England looked away.

"What did I do? Please, just tell me."

"You don't want to know." England's mouth twisted. "Let me go."

"Tell me."

"Let me  _go_."

Spain stood, and England snarled and twisted.

This was not going very well. Spain should have just left it alone. He couldn't stand the dirty looks. And the silent treatment. God, he hated the silent treatment. He shouldn't have gotten drunk.

Spain finally let England go, and he stumbled, rubbed his wrists.

"Not telling me won't help."

England scoffed. "It certainly won't help your hatred of me."

"Did I say I hated you?"

England half-turned away. "No."

"I don't. England, I do not hate you. Did I really say that?" Spain neared. He didn't want to touch England, in case he lashed out, snapped. His hands hovered. "Did I say that?"

" _No_!" England turned farther away. "No. You didn't say that. But you do."

"How do you know?"

England let out a quick laugh. "Because."

Spain let his hands drop. "What did I do?"

"You said you loved me."

Oh. And he couldn't really help himself—he laughed. England whirled around, breathing heavy. Spain took a step back, but England was already giving him a shove. Spain barely stopped himself from falling on his ass.

"What the fuck?" Spain snarled.

"It's not  _funny_! You think everything between us is funny! Fuck, Spain, I need more than that!" England gave him another shove. "Not this  _shit_! Over and over and over again!"

Spain grabbed a fistful of England's shirt and hauled him close. "What do you want me to do?" he hissed in Spanish. "I try, England. But half the time you act like I'm not worth the dirt you stand on!"

"Oh, you  _do_  care." England gave a big eye roll. "You could have fooled me. You only talk to me when you want a quick shag." He pried Spain's fingers off his shirt, but his bottom lip trembled.

"I didn't hear you complaining." Spain wrapped an arm around England's waist to keep his close.

England glared. "Fuck you. God, fuck you. Let me  _go_."

"You  _like_  sleeping with me! Don't you? You don't tell me to stop! You come into my hotel room. You like me, don't you?"

England just glared. Spain released him.

"Do you really care?" England asked. He sounded so tired. "Do you really care if I like you? Does it matter? This—we're—we're not anything, Spain."

The room was very quiet.

"I do love you." It was all Spain could say.

"No," England said firmly, "you don't. You like our back and forth. But me? Really me?"

"Is there a difference?"

England laughed, again, once. "Yeah. Yeah, there is a fucking bloody difference." He sat on the ground and began to gather the paper. "Go away, Spain. Just—go away."

And, as he always did in the end, Spain let England simmer.

* * *

"England, do you know you have the prettiest eyes in the world? It's not fair, you're a really handsome bastard. Sometimes I want to kill you. More than sometimes. But I'm very in love with you and I can't. There's no justice."


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Anonymous said:** I was wondering if for the last open slot you could write a continuation of that engspa oneshot you wrote, possibly? I was thinking an intimate apology, or if England dropped by Spain's hotel room for something more physical- if you catch my drift.

It was cold. Spain was wrapped up in the blanket, flipping through the channels on the television. He couldn't understand Russian, but he settled for something that looked like a horror movie. Something with plenty of blood and guts, anyway.

The tip of his nose was cold.

There was a knock at the door. Spain glanced over and muted the television.

"Italy?"

There was another knock—another palm of the hand against the wood. "No, I'm not fucking Romano. Let me in. Spain." Another few bangs.

Spain stared at the door for a long second before kicking the covers off. The chill assaulted his legs, and he felt a bad mood settle around his shoulders. It took him a few seconds to figure out the lock on the door, and England kept banging.

"Hold on," Spain snapped.

The door finally cracked open. England leaned against the doorframe, slumped over, tie loose and shirt unbuttoned. His eyes had trouble focusing, his face was flushed. Spain pulled back slightly.

"You're drunk," he commented.

"I'm sorry." England seemed to slouch forward, and Spain let him into the room. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Spain rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, maybe…"

England sat on the edge of the bed, began to try and untie his shoes. He swayed. "Maybe what?"

Spain sighed. "Look, I was thinking about what you said, and maybe you are right. This can't be healthy. You should not have to be drunk to come and see me. England.  _England_."

England continued to unbuckle his belt. "Then get drunk. I don't much bloody care what you have to do. I'm lonely. You…" His face cracked into a smile. "You  _love_  me, so what's the harm? Huh? Come on, Spain, you  _love_  me."

"It's not funny. England, Arthur—" Spain walked forward and stopped England from unbuttoning his shirt further. "Stop."

England scowled and ripped his hands away. He kept unbuttoning. "Take your pants off."

Spain watched him for a few long seconds. His fingers kept fumbling with the buttons, and his cheeks were flushed in the light of the television. The dark spots under his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin.

Spain played with the buckle of his belt. "What did you mean? Why were you angry?"

"Because—because I don't want t'talk about it." England squared his shoulders when Spain didn't answer. "I don't. It doesn't matter, okay? Fucking hell, just…"

England reached forward and tugged Spain closer, tried to undo the clasp.

"I want to know. I don't understand."

"Look, why do we have to talk? Why are we always, always fucking talking?" England cursed and shook his hand. "This belt is terrible craft. Do it."

Spain obliged. England looked like a mess, hair sticking up and still swaying, and Spain thought he might have been a bad person as he sat on the bed next to him. England kissed his neck, hands working their way under Spain's boxers. His fingers were cold, and Spain grunted.

Spain should have asked if England wanted to do this.  _Really_  wanted to, but God he was rutting against him and panting, fingers digging into Spain's back. So Spain sucked at England's neck and just let them be.

* * *

It was morning. It was morning and sunny. Spain sat up and stretched, back popping. England rolled over and moaned.

The alarm went off.

"Fuck, fuck." England scrambled for the clock, knocked it over. "Why the bloody fuck does God hate me?" He nearly fell off the bed yanking out the cord.

"Good—"

"Oh, don't tell me we slept together." England dragged his head over to look at Spain. The bags under his eyes hadn't gotten any better. He looked away suddenly, covered his face with his hands and groaned.

What was the difference between a moan and a groan? Spain figured a groan sounded more annoyed. He decided he liked moaning better.

"You liked it," Spain offered. "And I tried to stop you."

"Yeah, I'm sure you tried to stop me. My ass really feels like you tried to stop me." England sat up, rubbed at his eyes.

He seemed so thin, then, tight and drawn. Cold, maybe. Tense. Spain's hands moved on their own, touched England on the shoulder. The other man recoiled, glaring. Spain held his palms up.

"What? Why are you touching me?"

Spain tried again, and England watched his hands like a feral cat. Spain saw his jaw working and he gently turned England away from him. He felt along England's shoulder, over his spine, the muscles and skin and furrows of scars. England was clammy.

"What are you doing?" England asked, hunching his shoulders as Spain neared them again. "I have to take a shower and grab another change of clothes. I don't have time for this."

But there it was. Slowly, slowly, England relaxed. He didn't get any warmer, but for a second, the shoulders were loose and the breathing was slow.

"I don't know—" The shoulders, tense again. "—If you noticed when you came in last night, but I was watching a horror movie when you came in. It wasn't very good, and I couldn't understand half of the plot. I think one of them was supposed to be American, because there was English, a lot of English for Russia, but I couldn't understand a single word he said."

"That's fascinating," England drawled back in Spanish.

"Mm. It was an experience, you know?" Spain worked at a knot. "Are you happy?"

"What? Of course I'm happy." England started to turn around, but Spain forced him to look forward again. "What sort of question is that? Just because—"

"I mean right now." Spain gestured. "You are warm and massaged and it is the beginning of a new day and you are with me. Are you happy?"

The same movie from the night before was on, but England's head was turned toward the window. It was a pretty day. Sometimes, Russia was pretty.

"Oh," England said. His voice wavered. "Oh, yes. I'm happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Too bad England is a dickface.**


End file.
